Justice for Joe

By Dianna Dorisi Winget

Based on the story of Beautiful Joe, the dog made famous by Canada's beloved author and early animal welfare activist Margaret Marshall Saunders. 

 

When twelve year old Birch learns the rare clock gene she inherited from her grandmother allows her to time travel, she's not excited, she's terrified! After all, Birch has a dismal track record when it comes to succeeding at new endeavors. But when she agrees to try and grant her beloved Gran's last wish by traveling back to 1894 Ontario, Canada on behalf of animal welfare, she discovers amazing things not only about herself but about the power of courage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dianna Dorisi Winget
• Release date: Oct 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215489031

Dianna Dorisi Winget

Dianna Dorisi Winget writes fiction and non-fiction for young readers. She is a life-long resident of the Pacific Northwest and lives in the mountains of North Idaho with her husband and daughter. www.diannawinget.com

Book preview

Justice for Joe

Copyright © 2022 by Dianna Dorisi Winget

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

Chapter 1—The Beginning

Something’s wrong.

I feel it the moment Jinx and I slip back inside after our nightly rounds and I see pale, golden light seeping out from beneath Gran’s bedroom door. She often reads till midnight or later, but never this late ... never until 4 a.m.

A low, throaty whine rumbles from Jinx as if he too understands something is out of order. He’s great at discerning trouble—just not quite as good as me. I have what Gran calls extraordinary intuition. A mouthful that basically means I tend to sense danger or fear quicker than most people. I also have heightened awareness when it comes to anything sensory. For example, I have a supersized sense of smell and taste. These weird quirks are thanks to the clock gene—an extremely rare gene I inherited from Gran.

But the strangest, greatest, most disturbing—however you view it—characteristic of the clock gene is that anyone who has it barely needs to sleep. That’s where it gets its name. According to the myriad of child health and psychology books my mother consulted over the years trying to figure me out, a typical twelve-year-old needs between eight to nine hours of sleep a night to operate at peak performance.  Sadly, I’m not typical. I require only two.

Gran is the same way. But for some reason, she considers the clock gene a gift. But to me, it’s not a gift at all. It’s nothing but a noose around my neck—making me different, making sure I never come close to fitting in with other kids my age. If that’s a gift, I’d love to wrap it up in a box and re-gift it to big, overbearing Josh Tierney—my least favorite kid in the whole sixth grade.

Jinx is still staring toward Gran’s room with his nose quivering, clearly concerned. I don’t smell anything unusual. Just a familiar mix of smoke from the wood stove, dust in the air, and wet dog. I place a hand on Jinx’s broad head. Hold on there, big guy, I whisper. Gimme a minute to lock up and then we’ll go check on her.

Dad’s erratic snores rumble down the stairs like a muted freight train. You may think I’m exaggerating, but if you could hear the awful racket you’d believe it. I think my father just may be the world’s soundest sleeper. Two years earlier a hurricane blew into town off the Atlantic packing ninety-five mile-an-hour winds. It shredded our shingles, broke two windows, and demolished a neighbor’s garden shed. Dad never woke up.

My mother, on the other hand, sleeps like a bird with one eye open and resents anything that wakes her. So though I’ve never been caught either going on or returning from nightly rounds, I’m always extra cautious anyway. There’s too much at stake to be careless.

As soon as I bend to pull off my snowy boots Jinx starts into one of his infamous shakes. They always begin with a warning flip of his giant ears, rocket down his solid body, and exit with a whip of his skinny tail. And since Jinx is a mixed-up, eighty-pound combo of Wheaton terrier, smooth-coated hound dog, and who knows what else, that’s a whole lot of water droplets. There’s no stopping a shake once it starts. All you can do is cringe and shield your face while the water droplets fling to Timbuktu. It’s awful and impressive in a hilarious kind of way. At least it’s not noisy.

As soon as he finishes, I snatch a towel from the coatrack and give him a quick rub. I don’t bother trying to wipe up any of the droplets. It would be an exercise in futility. Plus, the heat of the wood stove will dry them long before the sun comes up. Instead, I toss the towel back on the coatrack and we pad across the oak floor to Gran’s bedroom. She’s actually my great-grandmother—Mom’s gramma who raised her, but she’ll always be just plain Gran to me.

Jinx head butts her door and it swings inward.

Gran rests primly against her pillows, her reading glasses hanging from their jeweled chain, and her knees forming knobby mounds beneath the sheet. She eyes me expectantly.

Hey, I say, tossing a damp braid over my shoulder. I thought maybe you fell asleep with your light on.

She smiles, but not big enough to crinkle her eyes. No, indeed. I’m just as awake as my little cuckoo over there.

I glance over at the ornate, two-foot-tall cuckoo clock perched on her dresser. Nearly all of Gran’s time travel souvenirs are hidden away, concealed in various boxes and drawers in her closet or other places throughout her room. An exquisite silver tea kettle from Shanghai. An old coin worth 50 Russian rubles. A corn husk doll from 1847 Missouri. And my favorite—a remarkable set of dominoes carved from whale bone by an Eskimo in Greenland. Gran says it’s best not to draw attention to the souvenirs which would only invite questions she’s not free to answer.

But she’s made an exception for the cuckoo clock—a special gift from a German chancellor’s wife who Gran saved from execution at the hands of her bloodthirsty husband. It sits proudly in full view and has for as long as I’ve been alive. In only three minutes, the little wooden cuckoo will burst through his bright red door to herald 4 a.m.

So how come you’re still up? I ask. Have you been coughing again?

I’m right as rain, Gran says. How were rounds tonight?

I offer an uneasy shrug. Gran’s never been one to beat around the bush or evade questions. Something’s definitely going on, but what? Rounds were fine, I say. Nothing unusual. I eavesdropped on Mrs. Baxter’s cooking show long enough to learn how risotto’s made.

Marvelous, Gran says, perhaps you’ll try making us some.

I wince. Or not. My wet jeans are sticking to me, making me shiver, and I’m more than ready to trade them in for fleece pajamas. And Gran seems fine, despite her acting a little weird. Well, as long as you’re okay, I think I’ll turn in.

Gran presses her wrinkled lips and pats the bedcovers. Not yet, Birch. Come sit a minute.

I guess Jinx thinks the invitation’s for him because he covers the four feet to Gran’s bed in a single leap. Oh, goodness, she says, as he plops his head on her white sheets, his jowls spreading like a brown puddle. She gently pokes his muzzle. I didn’t mean you. You smell like wet dog, my friend.

It’s snowing pretty hard out there, I say. If it wasn’t winter break they’d probably cancel school. I don’t bother to add how truly grateful I am for winter break—twelve heavenly days surrounded by Gran, Jinx, and all my favorite books, none of whom judge, sneer, or whisper behind my back.

I tug Jinx back. Chill out you big beast. Go to bed.

He whacks me with his tail before licking Gran’s hand and then obediently jogs to the woolen horse blanket near the closet. Grunting and digging, he stirs it into a lumpy mess before plopping down with a satisfied groan. Though he and I